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olutionary 
Writings 




BY 



JAMES Kelly cole 



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POEMS AND PROSE 
WRITINGS 



OF 



JAMES KELLY COLE 

MEMBER OF THE INDUSTRIAL WORKERS OF THE WORLD 

WHO WAS ACCIDENTLY KILLED NOVEMBER 17. 1909, 

WHILE ON THE ROAD TO SPOKANE. TO TAKE 

PART IN THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM OF 

SPEECH, AS AN ORGANIZER IN THE 

INTEREST OF HIS COMRADES 










PUBLISHED BY 

The Industrial Workers of the World 
518-56 Fifth Avenue, CHICAGO, ILL. 



»80 






HB20l92!> 






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CONTENTS 



Page. 

Biography 7 

Brothers and Sisters - - - - 13 
The Shadow of the Bars - - - 17 

"Taps'' 26 

What's the Use? 27 

Dream Time 28 

The Prisoner 29 

Patriotism 31 

Reform 33 

To AN Old Pal 34 

Broke at Christmas Time - - - 36 

An Old Friend 39 

My Mother's God 43 

"To THE Rose" 49 

Woman the Reformer - - - - 51 
Only a Tout - ' - 55 



James Kelly Cole 

1885-1909 



Seldom does Nature endow anyone 
with brilliancy, eloquence and promise, 
more richly than she did James Kelly 
Cole. Not often, perhaps, have the signs 
of the invisible future been more pro- 
pitious to anyone than they were to him. 
He possessed many of the attributes of 
a genius. Just as the waters of the land 
find a home in the ocean, so did all fine, 
human qualities find a place in him. He 
felt in his heart the feverish throbs of 
the world, and keenly sympathized with 
the poor, the oppressed and the hope- 
less. He knew mankind well and wished 
it well. He hoped for the ^'parliament 
of man, in the federation of the world.'' 

In the land of perpetual sunshine, 
down in old New Orleans, February 



8 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

6th, 1885, James Kelly Cole was born. 
His father was a brave defender of Lin- 
coln's cause and his mother was the gen- 
tlest of true womanhood. From his hon- 
orable parents, who still live to mourn 
their son, he inherited wealth, not in 
gold, but in character, mentality and 
sympathy. And of this fine inheritance 
he made good use for his fellow men. 

Cole was educated in the North Divi- 
sion High School, Chicago, where his 
record as a student was unexcelled. He 
particularly was unrivalled in English, 
and as an orator he was brilliant. But 
his education was far broader than that 
afforded by the high school. The library 
almost became his home. He schooled 
himself so well and became so learned 
that he could discuss with unusual facil- 
ity and intelligence any subject in eco- 
nomics, philosophy, history and litera- 
ture. 

While in high school, he established a 
flourishing school paper, **The Yellow 



WRITINGS 9 

and Blue/' of which he was the editor- 
in-chief. The ability he showed in this 
work presaged for him great success in 
the newspaper world. He had the power 
of administration, was inventive and 
able to execute his plans. After his 
high school course, he engaged in the ad- 
vertising business and was very success- 
ful. 

The temperament of Cole was always 
sunny and hoDefnl. In him were mixed 
the elements of June. His humor and 
wit made him a much-sought companion 
and famous among all who knew him. 
Once in high school, a girl began hope- 
fully to recite that poem, "Spring is 
coming, I know it, I know it." She got 
no further, but paused and stammered. 
Like a flash Cole cried out, "You don't 
know^ it.'' And then the stern teacher 
had to rap hard for order. 

As an orator, he was brilliant, force- 
ful and ready. When only a small boy 
he was known as the "boy orator," and 



10 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

was much in demand as a speaker, espe- 
cially in Grand Army circles. This gift 
of oratory grew with him, so that when 
he had become a man, he had already 
made an enviable record. When he 
spoke he said something interesting and 
of value, for his beautiful voice and art 
of oratory were only the agents for ex- 
pressing the thoughts of his clear, 
trained mind. 

Music was part of his life. The violin 
never refused to yield up its sweetest 
tones to him. And any song, however 
simple, when he sang it, became beauti- 
ful. Often he would come out of the 
theater and sing some song he had just 
heard better than the hired singer had 
done. And poetry, which is only a part 
of music, he loved intensely. The poets 
of all times he knew well, and much of 
their works he was ever ready to recite 
in a manner that they themselves 
would have been proud to hear. When 
something happened to strike his fancy, 



WRITINGS 11 

he would lapse into appropriate verse. 
However, his modest nature never laid 
claim to the title of poet or author. He 
wrote poetry and essays, much of which 
has been lost, but fortunately a few re- 
main to honor his memory. H he had 
given himself to literature, success for 
him would not have been uncertain. 

James Kelly Cole, however, tried to 
help mankind in a more practical way. 
To that irrepressible class, which is 
struggling against oppression and the 
system of ages, he belonged. He be- 
lieved in the rights of man and that 
man should meet man face to face. His 
whole being felt the injustice of present 
economic conditions and his sympathies 
were ever with the workingman, that 
toiler of the seas. He did all he could 
to remove the evils of capitalism and 
to supplant those evils with the rights 
that belong to men. His was never the 
part to make jest of the needy, but his 
was the part to help them. He believed 



12 JAMES KELLY COLE 

in socialism, hoped for it, worked for it 
and died for it. He saw in it the solu- 
tion of unsolved problems, the realiza- 
tion of justice and the victory of men. 

And it was on a pilgrimage to help 
others who believed in the rights of men 
that James Kelly Cole was halted sud- 
denly by death. A railroad accident at 
Tomah, Wis., November 17th, 1909, 
ended only too untimely his brief, young, 
hopeful life. He lived well and bravely 
and thus did he die. He was sincere, 
just and upright. He left many friends 
and sweet memories. 

" His life was gentle, '^and the elements 
So mixed in him that Nature might stand up 
And say to all the world, ' This is a man ! ' '' 

James Kelly Cole often recited these 
lines. They were true of him. 



Poems 



BROTHERS AND SISTERS 

Is he draped in ragged clothing, 
Are his hardened features vile; 

Do you look on him with loathing, 
Or a thoughtless, sneering smile; 

Does he leer at you in envy ; 

Evil gleaming in his eye? 
In the darkness of the twilight, 

Would you fear to pass him by? 

Is his life an allegory, 

Made of hatred and despair? 
Doesn't some one know his story? 

Doesn't anybody care? 

Will he trudge the city's highway. 
Friendless, doomed to ever roam; 

Is his bed a sheltered byway; 

Has he pawned the joy of home? 



14 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

For a body racked and broken, 

Don't you think he'd understand, 

Just a kind word softly spoken, 
Or the pressure of a hand? 

Will at last the highway lead him 
To the river's brink at night, . 

Where upon the restless ripples 

Shine the moonbeam's ghostly light ? 

Will he hesitate a moment 

'Till the latest hope has fled; 

Has another soul been added 
To the kingdom of the dead? 

He's your brother. 



Did you meet her in the glamor 

Of a city's gilded hell; 
In a mercenary amour. 

Did you drink and wish her well? 



WRITINGS 15 

Do you really think her laughter 

' Rang out truly, rang out free ; 
The deep sigh that followed after 
I am sure you did not see. 

And I wonder if you noticed 
The sad longing in her eye 

When that mother with a baby, 
All unconscious, passed you by. 

Did you know she got a letter 
From a country 'cross the sea, 

That a mother, who had loved her. 
Passed to all eternity? 

Did you know the tears went coursing 
Thru the paint upon her cheek, 

As she gazed upon a picture; 

Did you hear that fearful shriek? 

Did you stand among the curious. 
Looking through the open door, 

Where beside a lifeless body, 
Lay a pistol on the floor? 



16 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

Did you note the worried visage 
Of the "Madame" by her side; 

Did you read upon the first page, 
Of another suicide? 

She's your sister. 
* * * * * * ^ 

They are falling, brother, falling, 
Almost daily in the land. 

Won't you heed their silent calling? 
Won't you stretch a kindly hand? 



WRITINGS 17 



THE SHADOW OF THE BARS 

The raven croaks her lone, prophetic 

flight 
Across the dismal waste, and sable 

Night 
Hath clothed the prison wall in garb 

of gloom. 
Unseen the orbs which thru eternal time 
Are Wisdom's fount, and source of 

Hope, sublime : 
The fearful shadows shroud a living 

tomb. 



The vagrant wind taps constant on the 

pane, 
A dreary chant of woe, without refrain. 
It beats with careless count the pulse 

of strife: 
And restless, fevered thought of bitter 

things, 



18 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

Discordant with the wind intensely 
rings 
The tuneless canto of a wasted life. 

The convict brooding in his narrow cell, 
Awaits the ringing of the signal bell, 
Which bids the weary soul to sleep 
and rest : 
Ah, if that brazen thing but had the 

power 
To lull in slumber sweet one little hour, 
Those tireless phantoms of the mind 
arrest. 

Unknown, upon that hard and narrow 

cot, 
The peaceful sleep of boyhood's happy 

lot: . 
Here dreams grotesque the fevered 

brain abuse : 
Dreams conjured in the glaring pit of 

hell, 
Wove red with threads of pain in Mab's 

weird spell, 



WRITINGS 19 

With terror glint the eye, the brow 

suffuse. 

Upon a meager shelf a picture stands, 

A pile of faded letters, slender strands. 

Which hold the heavy heart in Love's 

embrace : 

'Tis all that's left him of the golden 

hours, 
When life was sweet with song and 
scent of flowers. 
And Hope revealed her glory in his 
face. 

He reads again the missives, one by one. 
From her who e'er was proud to call 

him son : 
With words of hope and gentle love 

they teem. 
His many boyhood graces well she knew, 
In her fond eyes he ne'er to manhood 

grew — 
Remained the idol of her virgin 

dream. 



20 JAMES KELLY COLES 

How ardently he hoped if wanton fate, 
Should e'er unbar the cruel prison gate, 
To rear a home and prove his love 
with deeds: 
And testify that many useless years 
Could not resist a mother's loving tears ; 
That seeds of love do not grow 
thankless weeds. 

That though the harvest may be long 

deferred. 
The tree well pruned by gentle deed and 

word, 
Will bear a harvest worth it's weight 

in gold: 
That storms of vice and ugly drouth of 

sin. 
But serve to purge the latent sap within. 
And yield a richer flavor than of old. 

Another year has made its dreary 

round : 
The village sexton tends a vernal mound. 



WRITINGS 21 

Wherein the convict's hopes lie with 
the dead. 
The brief oasis in his desert heart 
Became as burning sand, the better part 
Is sere and dry — nought lives but 
hate and dread. 

Dread of the god who turned away his 

face, 
Hate of the cruel, blind, indifferent race» 
Who treat their kind far worse than 
beast treats beast. 
What jungle despot ever kept his prey 
Confined in sunless vaults, to pine away. 
For seeking higher place in life's 
rich feast. 

Hath not the earth brought forth abun- 
dantly, 

In field of grain and heavy laden tree. 
Enough for all: then why, in jus- 
tice, should 

Some bear the curse of poverty and 
crime, 



22 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

Some live in sunny places, sweet with 
thyme, 
When all belong to Man's great 
brotherhood ? 

The felon feels within his heavy heart 

That fate, perverse, has played a wan- 
ton part 
In his mere life, that some dread 
pow'r unknown, 

Has cast its spell, and with a ruthless 
hand 

Has scattered Father Time's uncon- 
scious sand 
And left him bitter hours to brood 
alone. 

Days, weeks, months, years, in dull pro- 
cession plow 

Their tiny furrows on the smoothest 
brow. 
And scatter silver threads thru gold- 
en hair: 

No other tokens mark the flight of 
years, 



WRITINGS 23 

The days of fruitless toil and bitter 
tears, 
Nights spent in fearful thought, in 
faithless prayer. 

Beneath the callous guard's malignant 
eye. 

In silence he must toil, nor satisfy 
The yearning in his heart for fellow- 
ship, 

By word or sign to those who share his 
fate: 

All sympathy is crushed or turned to 
hate. 
And Self and He hold grim compan- 
ionship. 

Hate grows and feeds upon its mon- 
strous growth. 

Vile brooding lust becomes his mate, 
and both 
Rule jointly in the heart where Vir- 
tue's throne 

Was burnt to ashes in the flames of fear, 



24 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

Where Hope was drowned in memory's 
acrid tear, 
And Faith mocked God and died un- 
wept, unknown. 

How can such fearful cost annihilate 
Sin's crimson stain? How can we com- 
pensate 
By starving in the prison's iron 
hole? 
Tis true this felon killed a fellow man, 
And now society with pedant plan 
Will straightway right the wrong 
and kill a soul. 

If, interfused in earth and sky and sea. 
Pervading all that breathe and all that 

be, 
A law of Compensation turns the 

scale. 
And weighs and pays the penalty of 

pain. 
What ponderous weight of woe shall 

men sustain, 



WRITINGS 25 

To meet the cruel prison's mighty 
tale. 

And now the brazen bell its warning 
rings : 

The lights go out — the night wind gently 
brings 
The solemn tone of taps; nerve- 
racking jars 

Of bolts and keys disturb the stifling air, 

Beside his bunk the convict kneels in 
prayer, 
And o'er him steals the shadow of 
the bars. 



JAMES KELLY COLE'S 



" TAPS " 

When lights go out and darkness reigns 

alone ; 
Borne on the whispering wind, a plain- 
tive tone, 
The sacred chamber of my soul invades, 
And thrills, and flits with sorrow's soft- 
ened shades. 
bugler ! well we know, without thy art. 
That lights are out in every human 

heart ! 
Hear the sad, the solemn call, 
Wafted o'er the prison wall — 

NEV — ER — M-O-R-E ! NEV — ER — M-O-R-E ! 

Nevermore — Nevermore — Nevermore! 

NEV — ER — M-O-R-E ! NEV — ER — M-O-R-E ! 
NEV — ER — M-O-R-E ! NEV — ER — M-O-R-E ! 



WRITINGS 27 



WHAT'S THE USE? 

This world is full of pain and gloom; 

What's the use? 
We fight through life from crib to tomb ; 

What's the use? 
We work and sweat both night and day, 
For that wee bit that men call pay, 
And then we prod the same old way, 

What's the use? 

We rise at dawn to start at work ; 

What's the use? 
We cannot rest or labor shirk ; 

What's the use? 
We come home worn at night to sleep. 
But when the sunbeams light the steep. 
We hustle out our job to keep ; 

What's the use? 



28 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 



DREAM TIME. 

It's not in the glory of sunrise, 
It's not in the heat of the day, 

The Dream Fairy opens our eyelids 
To visions of Far-off-away. 

She comes in the cool of the twilight, 
Astride of the North Star's beam, 

Attended by many an elf-sprite 
Each bearing a beautiful dream. 



WRITINGS 29 



THE PRISONER 

When pacing my cell in the gloaming, 
I dream of the years yet to be, 

Of wonderful lands I'll go roaming. 
Of wonderful sights I shall see. 

No country too distant to foil me, 
No ocean too rough for my boat, 

I ride on the mist of a dream cloud, 
On the sure ship Hope I'm afloat. 

The Niger's jungles I'll conquer, 
Her denizens weird to behold; 

In south seas my good ship I'll anchor, 
To load with Australian gold. 

Then, Ho ! for the land of the Indus, 
The call of the east comes so plain. 

In "Mandalay" lines I have heard it, 
The temple bell's ringing again. 



30 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

I'm tired; I've sailed tlie world over, 
Fm longing the home land to see, 

But the *^^ screw" turned the lights on 
this evening 
And brought back the present to me. 



A "screw" is a prison guard. 



WRITINGS 31 



PATRIOTISM 

Behold the child his toy sword wave in 

glee, 
As phantom-thousands fall or turn and 

flee; 
For Conquest, Glory, Blood, his sours 

^fire; 
Tis Patriotism feeds the mad desire. 
When Croesus needs a cut-throat to de- 
fend 
His blood-bought pow'r, a simple child 

he'll send 
A man in strength and years, yet still 

the prey 
Of platitudes, gay flags and roundelay. 
For fools and knaves severe the patriot 

shrine ; 
But wise men, underneath the gilded 

shine, 



32 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

The tawdry brass of Self can well di- 

fine. 
For Love's not bounded by geography, 
By color, language, wealth nor heraldry, 
Her bourn is Heaven and Humanity! 



WRITINGS 33 

REFORM 

I saw him come — his face was fair 

To look upon, though Penitence 
Her chastening tears had gathered 

there ; 
Though pale his cheek and worn with 

care, 
And grief -disheveled the brown hair 

That crowned a boyish countenance. 
The hopeful eye e'er prophecies 

Success and joy; 
Five years — his star may yet arise — 
He's but a boy! 

I saw him go — a cunning leer 

Beamed from the sullen eye ; 
Where love had ruled, now hate and fear 
Reigned in the heart, a desert sere, 
Long thirsting for contrition's tear. 

Its fountains choked and dry. 
Five years ! With how much evil fraught 

Their burning scroll ; 
Man's penal plan no good had wrought. 

But damned a soul ! 



34 JAMES KELLY COLES 



TO AN OLD PAL 

Our ships have different courses, 
Our aims have changed, 'tis true; 

At the call of Nature's forces, 

Our paths have branched. in two. 

But when our ships are ready 

For the long, long journey home; 

When our sails are trim and steady. 
And the tide becks toward the foam ; 

When the port at last is entered; 

When the sails are reefed and dry; 
And our thoughts are ever centered 

On the wherefore and the why; 

When our barks begin to waver, 
And the cable parts in twain ; 

When we feel the last light quaver, 
As we drift upon the main; 



WRITINGS 35 

When we note the sails about us, 
Drifting slowly, drifting far, 

And we scan with eager eyes, 
To find some ship upon the bar ; 

Then, perhaps, at that last mooring 
Our barks may anchor fast 

To Friendship's rock, enduring 
Hulk to hulk and mast to mast. 



36 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 



BROKE AT CHRISTMAS TIME 

Wen a feller's flat agin th' wall an' 
hezent got a sou, 
An' things jes sort o' go contrary- 
wise; 
He mopes along without a home, a feel- 
in' hungry, too, 
Th' tears er jest wellin' to 'hiz eyesj 
He empties out his pockets in a listless 
sort o' way. 
An' can't rake up a solitary dime; 
It's a queerish kin' o' shiver as he looks 
into th' river, 
We'n a feller's broke 'long 'bout 
Chris'mus time. 

Ye feel yerself a outcast, ez thru th' 
streets ye roam. 
Ye really don' no wa t' say er do ; 
An' thoughts jes keep a risin' uv th' 
luvin' ones at home, 



WRITINGS ^ 37 

A watchin' an' a waitin' there for 
you. 
Wen th' copper roughly shoves ye, an' 
sez "now move on, jay. 

An' don't 'che dish me eny uv yer 
whine" ; 
W'y ye jes can't help wishin' in a brok- 
en-hearted way, 

Thet you wuz dead, 'long 'bout 
Chris'mus time. 

Peepul pass by heedless uv a dirty 
wretch like you, 
Th' wind, it almost takes away yer 
breath ; 
Yer nose iz sorely frosted, yer lips er 
thin an' blue; 
It's times like these a feller thinks uv 
death, 
Th' crowds all bump an' push ye, th' ' 
sleet drips down yer neck ; 
Th' 'lectric lights jes seem t' lose 
ther shine. 



38 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

Th' snow iz ten times colder an' ye feel 
jes ten times older, 
Wen a feller's broke 'long 'bout 
Chris'mus time. 

We look into a winda all ablaze with 
light, 
See children rompin' round' a Chris'- 
mus tree, 
A suckin' '^all day suckers," their faces 
shinin' bright; 
Th' ole folks joinin' in th' jamboree. 
Then ye think of yer own mother, an' 
th' story thet she told, 
'Bout a babe who came to banish sin 
an' crime; 
An' ye wonder if He'd care, if He wuz 
here, fer sich az you, 
Wen a feller's broke 'long 'bout 
Chris'mus time. 



WRITINGS 39 



AN OLD FRIEND 

When searching through the attic, 

To while away the time ; 
Through trunks and rusty boxes, 

Inch deep in must and grime. 

In an ancient, battered hat box. 
Almost buried out of sight 

I found a friend, forgotten. 
An old, neglected pipe. 

Where are the dreams I conjured 
From your care-dispelling bowl; 

Fragrant breaths of inspiration 
To my sorely-troubled soul? 

Where are the castles, airy. 
You and I together raised? 

They have crumbled with the ashes. 
Like the joys of other days. 



40 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

But I'll take you down this evening, 
And when lights are dim and low, 
We'll drift on mem'ry's dream-cloud 
. Toward the mists of Long Ago. 

And, old friend, if you can summon 
Flemish pictures of the past. 

You shall have a fitter guerdon, 
Than an attic's airy fast. 

For the breath of mild Havanna 
Will your longing satisfy; 

Old loves, old times, old pleasures, 
We'll review, pal, you and I. 

Yovlv glowing eye will lighten 

Care's heavy-laden yoke. 
And regret for present blunders 

Will vanish with the smoke. 

We'll go back to the cottage 
That stood upon the hill, 

Where breath of homely flowers 
The peaceful twilights fill. 



WRITINGS 41 

Trudging up the dusty highway, 

Free from school's confining grind; 

Whistling airs that wise old masters 
Have searched in vain to find. 

'Mid the classic lore of music ; 

A wild, free melody, 
That combined the happy heart-throb 

With the song of bird in tree. 

And there upon the green-sward 
Stands one whose love is true, 

As the dear, warm-hearted friendship, 
Old friend, I feel for you. 

Again we'll taste the cookies 
From the sacred pantry store. 

Such as make the hungry barefoot 
Eat his fill and yearn for more. 

Again we'll con the lessons. 

Grim, knotty tasks for school — 

Would that Life's entangled problems 
Could be solved by rote and rule. 



42 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

Once more we'll climb the stairway 
To the tempting, billowy bed, 

And listen to the music 

Of the pattering rain o'er head. 



WRITINGS 43 



MY MOTHER'S GOD 

Oh, Deity! Who hears my mother's 

prayer, 
When silent Night clothes gloomy 

Earth 
In sable mantle, decked with gems; 
I would to Thee a supplication make. 
Nor come I, heavy with great sacrifice; 
Incense, forms and favors shunning, 
Loved by all other gods. 
Full well I know Thy judgment rests on 

love; 
Full well Thy tender justice have I 

proved, 
When earthly sin, the vestige of my 

birth. 
Hath borne me down to sinful earth. 
Thou sit'st enthroned in loving hearts ; 
No jeweled, gilded heaven Thy delight, 
Like unto other gods. 
Who dote on pearly gates 



44 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

And streets of massive gold, 

And shining vestments, and 

Whose being rests on naught but praise, 

And the applause of men ! 

i am of earth. 

I have smelled the sweat on toiling men. 

At end of labor's gloom and grime. 

The broken bodies of humble women; 

Eyes sore with slaving in the night, I've 

seen; 
And children aged at suckling time ; 
Not as to body, health and mind ; 
Mature for labor's killing grind ! 
Sad earth is full of these. 
And dread disease, that hydra-headed 

monster. 
Waits at the door of man ! 
And crime, a gaunt and grizzled growth. 
Is but reactive of the Master's sloth! 
Enough ! — To him who toils for bread — 
Enough is said! 
Such know the staleness of the social 

life. 
Whose element is strife! 



WRITINGS ■ 45 



My mother's God, Thou'rt not omnipo- 
tent, 

And be it to Thy glory, 

Or else, like thundering Jove, from out 
the sky 

Would come the flashing of Thine eager 
eye! 

And with one sweep of august might, 

Earth's sin and gloom would vanish — 
as the night, 

When morning's glory puts her shade to 
flight! 

Thou wouldst not e'er disgrade Thy 
god-like power. 

In feats of clownish jugglery, a little 
hour. 

With giant deeds of mercy yet undone, 

When dank disease and death insult the 
sun! 

No trifling miracles would Thou per- 
form 

To astonish and astound a few ; 



46 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

Thy wondrous grace would not be prop- 
erty of Jew, 

Or Christian. But all men 

Would be encompassed by Thy mercy's 
ken! 

And earth would blossom into golden 
age; 

And crabb'd history's bloody page, 

Would pale into the hue 

Of Heaven's blue! 

The Eden time, through atavism's law, 

Would come again. 

And normal life would banish pain ; 

When men would live and walk in quie- 
tude. 

Their only thought — their only law, 

Their brother's good! 

My mother's God, what power stays 

The lives of men from goodly ways? 

What fiendish, fickle sprite 

Dims reason's light? 

Useless the question — ^well we know. 

That cursed exploitation stops the flow 



WRITINGS 47 

Of human kindness, and conjures woe! 
Men feed on men as beast on beast 
And human life is but a bloody feast ! 
Where kings sit down to banquet on 

their kind! 
Where Matter rules and Lucre con- 
quers mind ! 
Men curse and women die ! 
Yet not a weeping eye, save 'mongst 

those 
Who wear the proletarian's rough 

clothes. 
And little children feed the golden pile. 
While bloody barons look and smile, 
Or curse the Master of the show. 
Who fails to keep the fires aglow! 

H: H: H: H: Hi * 

My mother's God, what can weak man 

Attempt? To lift this frightful ban! 

Where shall men find relief, 

For slavery's grief? 

Thou art the true God of Love, 

But Love, but follows where. 



48 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

Keen Knowledge leads. Pray lead us 

there ! 
And — ^knowing — then the proletarian 
Will shake the shackles from his aching 

limbs, 
And breathe again; 
And know that Socialism's plan 
Is the enfranchisement of man. 



WRITINGS 49 



"TO THE ROSE'' 

Once this rose bloomed full and sweet ; 
Soft zephyrs bore her rare perfume, 
A stranger found her at his feet ; 
Could flower wish a nobler tomb? 
Perhaps in perfumed litany, 
She sought her soul-mate — Poetry! 
When desultory reader opes, 
This book, to strengthen feeble hopes. 
While on this barren desert cast, 
She conjures memories of the past. 
Her life, though short, with beauty rife ; 
Knew naught of care ; knew naught of 

strife ; 
To-morrow's, never changed the gay, 
The tender tints of yesterday. 
So men shall learn to live, I vow. 
As free from care. Oh, Rose! as thou! 
Oh, Rose; soon will my journey cease. 
My spirit seek an earthy peace. 
Among the stones, the clods, the clay. 



50 JAMES KELLY COLE 

That gave to thee thy colors gay. 

Only a fool would fear to go, 

Where tints like thine are taught to 

grow 
And bloom, to meet the shining sun — 
The climax this: Then duty done! 
I pray my soul, in grand attune, 
With natural things, may greet the noon 
Of manly deeds and in the light, 
Of duty done — then seek the night 
Of rest and peace, that other men. 
The law of love and life, may ken. 
Now to thy soul I make this prayer. 
That when I go; no matter where; 
I shall have left a few good deeds ; 
That I may not be cast with weeds, 
To die forgotten; but like thee. 
Find rest in glorious history. 



Woman the Reformer 



The greatest deed of woman was per- 
suading Adam to eat the apple and be- 
come wise. Since then her power as a 
reformer has been on the slump. From 
the time of her first intellectual awak- 
ening, not long since, up to the present 
she has stood individually and collec- 
tively for petty reform. 

Women are impressionistic. They see 
an evil but do not look for the cause. 
Blindly they endeavor to remove the un- 
sightly thing without reasoning out 
a process. It could not be otherwise, 
for they have been and ever will be un- 
reasonable creatures. Thank God for it. 
It makes them beautiful. 

An old farmer down in Maine built a 



52 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

new house. The roof leaked slightly, not 
enough to be unpleasant or to make 
things damp, but just enough to cause 
the walls of one room to become some- 
what streaky. On this account the old 
farmer had to whitewash the room once 
a month. It never occurred to him to fix 
the roof, or if it did, the job appeared 
too strenuous, and the whitewashing re- 
moved the evil for a time at least. 

WOMAN IS A WHITEWASHER. 

With brush in hand she roams about 
the world daubing an ugly spot here and 
there. By the time she has gone the 
rounds the spots are out again more 
numerous than before, an unpleasant 
way ugly things have of multiplying. 
This whitewashing has a purpose, how- 
ever. It proves the inefficacy of reform 
measures in this system. Disease, crime 
and evil of every sort is but the macu- 
lar evidence of a diseased condition of 
the social organism. Evil in society is 



WRITINGS 53 

a constitutional disease. If a man were 
like Job, covered with boils, he would 
be hooted should he attempt to cure him- 
self by treating each boil individually. 
He would find himself on a continual 
round "reforming" boils. The out- 
growth of social evil can rarely be re- 
moved by reform and never can be cured 
by it. The constitutional remedy, eco- 
nomic revolution, must be applied. The 
evils attending the liquor and tobacco 
habits, about which the W. C. T. U.'s, 
the Y. M. C. A.'s, the I. 0. G. T.^s and 
other alphabetical combinations are con- 
tinually howling, will never be removed 
until the intensity of machine labor is 
mitigated, the hours shortened and la- 
bor receives its full product. The prob- 
lem of the unemployed will stand 
sphinx-like, let demagogues rant how 
they may about tariff and immigration, 
until the great financial barons are 
forced, through economic revolution, to 
desist from changing the life-blood, en- 



54 JAMES KELLY COLE 

ergy, joy and freedom of innocent child- 
hood into piles of yellow gold reeking 
with the sweat and stink of human bod- 
ies. The divorce and marriage prob- 
lems ; the problem of the fallen woman, 
will be ever with us until womankind 
are placed in an economic position 
where they will not be dependant upon 
man for a subsistance, a position in 
which they may bud and blossom into 
beautiful, normal womanhood and not 
become, as under the present regime, in- 
tellectual and physical dwarfs — unsight- 
ly and useful only to the Capitalist. 

Meanwhile let the whitewashing con- 
tinue. It is valueless as a remedy but 
an excellent illustration. 



Only a Tout 



It was Getaway day at Harlem. A 
crowd made up of all sorts and condi- 
tions filled the spacious grand stand and 
lined the fence along the "stretch." The 
dapper, easy-going young "sport," 
dressed in the latest fashion, a field- 
glass slung over his shoulder, reading 
an official "dope" book ; the seedy look- 
ing old-timer, a cigar jabbed in his red 
countenance, intently studying the 
newspaper tips; the clerk with a Sat- 
urday afternoon off; the broken-down 
gambler; the vagrant; all these and 
many other types were in evidence. 

The brazen young woman, with a line 
of racing talk that would humble a 
sporting editor, was telling the frail lit- 
tle woman in the blue goggles that "Alle- 
gro" was a "pipe," and would "cop" the 



56 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

"stake.'' "Why look," said she, "his 
last time out he was only sixth in a field 
of eight. Let's see; oh, yes, 'Judge 
Himes' won that race, and you can bet 
your last shekel 'Himes' is no 'dog' in 
the mud. Harris is up on her, he's a 
nigger, but he's great on the finish." 
At this stage of the conversation a col- 
ored enthusiast of the feminine gender 
"butted in." 

"Yo' is shore right there, leddy. Dat 
boy Harris ain't no kin' uv a fool on no 
kin' uv a horse, dat boy ain't. He may 
be black but de goods am dar." Femin- 
ing satellites of the racing game put 
great confidence in the colored fratern- 
ity, having the absurd idea that these 
colored women are bulging with inside 
information from the stables. For this 
reason the little woman with the blue 
goggles was convinced beyond all doubt 
that "Allegro" was a good horse and she 
"'lowed he had a chance." 



WRITINGS 57 

"Chance," sniffed the brazen young 
woman, ''chance? Oh fudge"! 

"Chance?" echoed the colored lady. 
"Oh my." 

"What's his odds?" piped the little 
lady, in a mincing voice. 

"Forty t'one, madam," volunteered a 
gentleman, rather large in the abdomen 
and small in head, who "sported" a 
pasty looking pin on a dirty red neck- 
tie. "Forty t'one, madam, and he's got 
about as much chance as a f av'rit in the 
Derby. Why, he couldn't win," contin- 
ued the fat gentleman, in short, impres- 
sive gasps, "if the rest of them horses 
was tied to that sprinklin' cart." 

This voluntary information rather 
startled the little woman and she waited 
for support from her late friends. The 
colored lady looked sheepish. The braz- 
en young woman sniffed contemptuously 
and "guessed that some people didn't 
know Washington was dead" ; and that 
"she had her opinion of some pikers." 



68 JAMES KELLY COLES 

The portly gentleman smiled uneasily 
and looked for consolation to his news- 
paper. 

It was an ideal day. The sun was 
shining bright and the beautiful hats of 
the women bedecked with ribbons, birds 
and flowers shimmered in the sun. The 
band was playing "Bill Bailey/* and all 
hearts seemed light and gay, for old Sol 
has a way of chasing gloomy looks from 
careworn faces, of coaxing tardy smiles 
to sour lips. "Favorites" had won the 
first two races, and this fact alone would 
prove to the initiated that the crowd was 
in good spirits, for Saturday crowds 
have a weakness for favorites. 

When looking over the vast sea of 
faces in the stand, some youthful and 
denoting inexperience, others bold and 
bearing the telling lines of vice and de- 
pravity, the onlooker saw pictured by 
Time's unsparing hand, in the varied 
and diversified physiognomies, every 
human frailty, vice, folly and imbecility. 



WRITINGS 69 

For whom but a mental degenerate is 
found at a race course? As one's eyes 
roamed over these upturned faces the 
attention was fixed upon one face. It 
impressed the onlooker with a sem- 
blance of occult power or magnetism. 
The features were lined and drawn with 
care; the inflamed eyes, red through 
loss of sleep and nightly debauch, were 
starting from their sockets; the lips 
were compressed with mental agony. 
The cheeks had the pale flush of the 
consumptive. But aside from these 
marked features there was something 
depicted which kept the onlooker hyp- 
notized. It was the wrestling of a soul. 
The whole visage bore such a look of ab- 
ject misery, wildness, forlorn hopeless- 
ness, and yet the owner was so young, 
not above twenty, that the onlookers' 
heart is touched with sympathy. The 
whole aspect of the man portrayed such 
woe and despair that many eyes are 
rooted on the spot. He looks listlessly 



60 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

at the happy faces about him and moves 
slowly toward an exit to the ring. His 
bearing is that of a gentleman, not the 
swaggering poltroonery of a gambler. 
He reaches the stairway and looks down 
upon the seething mass of humanity in 
the betting ring. The ring is about fifty 
yards long and nearly as wide. Along 
two sides of it stand the booths of the 
bookmakers. A motley crowd is madly 
surging and swaying around these 
stalls, holding money above their heads 
and trying frantically to place their bets 
before the "odds" are shortened. Here 
we see thousands of individuals, day by 
day, idling their time away in tlje vain 
hope of getting something for nothing. 
In these sloughs of idleness and degen- 
eracy the youth gets the first brand of 
the criminal. He receives here the im- 
petus which ultimately makes him a 
social outcast, a physical and mental de- 
generate. Here under the eyes of the 
jurist, theologian and politician is a can- 



WRITINGS 61 

cerous growth which preys upon the 
manhood of the rising generations. You 
judges sitting in ease upon the bench; 
you eminent divines preaching mildewed 
orthodoxy to your flocks; you corrupt 
politicians basking in your power ; you 
are responsible. At your door we lay 
the fruit of the gambling evil. 

After watching the gamblers a few 
moments the young man descended the 
stairway toward the ring. The fierce 
light of gambling which once lighted his 
eyes is gone. It is changed to the dull 
glow of fevered despair. He reaches the 
bottom step and leans against the bal- 
ustrade. 

Other eyes are watching our hero. An 
individual in plaid trousers and orange 
jersey, coatless, and wearing a little 
blue cap is gazing intently at him. 

He is a small man, wiry, with a 
weather-beaten visage. The face, 
though cunning, bears traces of good 
humor. This is the type often seen at 



62 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

race tracks, a typical tout and hanger- 
on, one who gains a livelihood by "rop- 
ing in suckers/' This, in the vernacular 
of the ring, means the selling of racing 
information to the unwary. 

After scrutinizing our hero for a few 
moments, evidently for the purpose of 
ascertaining whether he had found a 
prospective "sucker," he crossed the 
ring and accosted the young man in a 
friendly way. 

"Played this race yet, pal? There 
goes th' horn; they'll be at th' post in 
a minute." 

Our hero looked steadily at the tout 
for a moment as if debating whether 
to answer this seeming familiarity, but 
finally answered surlily: 

"I'm not betting on this race." 

"Got bumped in the first two, huh?" 
questioned the tout. 

"Yes, I lost a little my God." With 

a low moan he reeled and would have 



WRITINGS 63 

fallen headlong had not the tout sup- 
ported him. 

"What's th' matter, pal, yer ez white's 
a sheet?" 

"Oh, it's nothing. Just a little pain 
in my side. I guess it's the excitement." 
He steadied himself against the balus- 
trade. 

"Come an' have a drink. A little 
"three-star" 'ill fix y' right. Y' musn't 
take th' game s' hard." The tout grasped 
him by the arm and led him hastily to 
the bar, although he made a slight re- 
sistance. 

"Here, Jack, a couple out o' the' brown 
bottle." As the bartender responded, a 
smile of recognition passed between him 
and the tout. 

"Up to th' brim, pal, that's th' medi- 
cin ; here's 'how.' " With one gulp the 
tout took his "medicin" and eyed his 
new acquaintance. The stranger swal- 
lowed the burning liquor and coughed 
violently. He seemed about to faint and 



64 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

staggered against the bar, passing his 
hand over his face like one bewildered. 

''Whatche coughin' fer, pal; y' can't 
be ust to that stuff?'' said the bartender. 

"I never drank before I played the 
races. This is my first season and my 
last, I hope." 

"Well, pal, horse racin' an' drinkin' 
kin' o' pull together, that's a fact," said 
the tout. ''Have another?" 

"No, thanks; this has braced me up 
v^onderfully." At this moment the bell 
in the paddock rang for the jockeys to 
mount. 

"There's the secon' bell, pal," ex- 
claimed the tout. "Th' jocks er gettin' 
up. Look, they're comin' out now. Say, 
pal, I've got somethin' right in this one. 
I'm from th' Cummin's stable an' they're 
ears ain't muffled any. Ther's goin' t'be 
a hot one put over in this race. Wan'a 
get next?" The stranger looked up sud- 
denly and eyed the tout for a few sec- 
onds and then said: 



WRITINGS 65 

"How do you know this horse will 
win"? The tout took him by the arm, 
walked toward the ring and said in a 
confidential way : 

''Didn't I jes tell ye I got this frum 
the right people, an' b'sides this filly 
breezed a mile yisterday in one-f ort'-two 
an' this gang uv sellin' platers she's 
hooked up with can't do it in one-f ort'- 
four in this goin'. She's perpared fer 
this race an' th' owners an' wise ones 
er goin' t'make a killin'. It'll be th' 
biggest s'prise uv th' meetin'. 0' course 
we fellers ain't s'posed t' give this in- 
formation out, but y' looked kind a lippy 
and I thought ye'd 'predate it if I 
butted in. Seein's yer out on the day 
here's a boss chance t'git ahead uv um. 
O'course if she wins, an' there ain't 
nothin' that kin go her route, I'll expect 
a little fer lettin' y'in. It's a lead pipe, 
what-a-y'say?" While the tout was 
speaking the stranger listened eagerly. 



66 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

His face lost its look of ennui and be- 
came flushed with hope. 

"If I thought this horse could win I 
would bet ten dollars," said he. 

"Ten, why, pal, that boss is worth th' 
biggest bet y'ever made." 

"What horse is it?" the stranger 
asked eagerly. 

"Lucy M., pal, an' a real boss." Our 
hero scanned the boards on which the 
"bookies" write the odds. His face bore 
a look of keen surprise. 

"Why, she's twelve to one," said he. 

"Juicy odds, huh, fer a big bet," ex- 
claimed the tout; "she opened at twen- 
ty, but wise money has cut her t'twelve. 
1 'better git yer money up quick. She'lJ 
be th' favrit near, before th' race." By 
this time the pair had reached the out- 
skirts of the motley crowd jamming the 
ring. 

"Do you think she can beat Hayward 
the First; he's four to five?" The 



WRITINGS 67 

stranger looked anxiously into the tout's 
face. 

"Ah, them favrits. Say, pal, eny duf- 
fer what follys favrits 'ill go to the bad 
in a hurry. Some guys come out here, 
full o' dope, with a 'scope hangin' 'round 
ther' neck; they go to th' paddock en 
squint knowin' like at the hosses bein' 
exercised, look at th' condition uv th' 
track, an' then they got a idee they kin 
call um one, two, three. They're piker- 
dopes, pal, piker-dopes. They ain't 
nothin' a layer likes better than a dope 
fiend, especially if he's got his pockets 
full o' paper dope. W'y, say, the guys 
what write them newspaper tips couldn't 
tell a cheap sellin' race from the Amer- 
ican Derby. Their nut's full o' bug 
juice. If a guy folly them tips he'll walk 
home from Ran'olf street nine days out 
uv th' week. Pal, I'm on the inside 
t'day en 'y kin bet all yer worth Lucy 
M 'ill deliver th' goods." 



68 JAMES KELL Y COLE'S 

"If I thought she could win"— the 
stranger broke in. 

"Win, pal? WV, it'll be a shame t' 
take th' money. Harris, that's her own- 
er, bet on her outside th' track, so's not 
t' spoil th' odds. Look, she's down 
t' ten now. Ye better hurry if y* wan's 
get a good price." The young man's 
face was a study. He seemed to be 
undergoing a great mental strain. He 
hesitated a moment, passed his hand 
tremblingly over his brow, and said: 

"I think I'll bet fifty to win and fifty 
to show." The tout grasped him by 
the arm and whispered in hoarse, eager 
accents : 

"Pal, if yuv got big money in yer 
pants don't pass this one up. Bet a hun- 
erd each way if it's in yer jeans, en ye 
won't be sorry. Go ahead, pal, it's the 
easiest thing I seen this summer." 

"Is it true that you have inside in- 
formation on this race? Be honest with 
me; is it true?" 



WRITINGS 69 

"Sure's shootin', pal. Cassidy give it 
to me this mornin*, en he's from the 
Cummin's stable. It's dead sure. 
There's only two ways to stop Lucy M, 
her er th' jock must drop dead. She's 
th' real dope." The young man 
leaned against a booth and placed his 
hand to his throbbing head. He was 
silent a few moments and then mur- 
mured almost inaudibly: 

"Shall I risk it— shall I risk it?" 

"Go ahead, pal, an' ye'll thank me for 
tellin' ye. They must be at th' post. 
Don't hesitate. Some guy wrote some- 
where's — He what hesitates is — is — 
well, he ain't in it. Hurry, pal, er ye'll 
be too late." A look of desperate de- 
termination came over the young man's 
countenance. He reached in his pocket 
and counted out two hundred dollars. 
He had but three dollars left. He turned 
to the tout and said fiercely: 

"Well, I will risk it" 



70 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

"Said like a true sport. Ye'll be on 
th' block some day." 

*'God, I hope not," answered the 
stranger. **If I could only get even I 
would quit gambling forever." 

''Well, yer right fer once, ole sport. 
Git that money up before it's too late." 
They pushed their way through the| 
surging crowd. After a short struggle 
around a booth the stranger exchanged 
two hundred dollars for the coveted tick- 
et. He hurried through the crowd 
toward the back of the ring closely fol- 
lowed by the tout. They made for the 
stairway and went up on the run, for 
but a few seconds would elapse before 
the horses would be off. They found 
two seats near the top of the stand. 
Every eye in the crowd was rooted on a 
line of bobbing color and caps across 
the infield of the course. It was a six- 
furlong race and much depended on the 
start. The stranger's face was white 
and drav^Ti. He groaned. 



WRITINGS n 

"Say, sport, you mustn't take th' game 
so hard," said the tout. "It'll kill ye." 
The stranger turned upon him fiercely. 
"Do you know," he said, "that my fu- 
ture depends on the issue of this race?" 
A desperate light came into his eyes. 
"I am playing with stolen money." The 
tout moved uneasily, but said nothing. 

"My God, why don't he let them go. 
This suspense is awful — her colors are 
green and white." 

"Two-year-oles er a hard bunch to 
start, pal," volunteered the tout. The 
stranger paid no attention. His whole 
soul was in his eyes and they were riv- 
eted on the quivering mass of horseflesh 
that could hardly be distinguished across 
the course. He was muttering inaudi- 
bly; his fists were tightly clenched. 

"Lucy M must win," he said, "if I " 

"They're off!" roared the crowd. As 
the white barrier shot up a cloud of dust 
rose and the race was on. As the view 
cleared it was seen one horse was left 



72 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

at the post. The stranger jumped upon 
his seat. He was wild with excitement. 
All his pent-up feeling was released on 
the rising of the barrier. "Lucy's in 
front," he shrieked, "they're crowding 
her but she's got the rail. A good length 
ahead and running easy. Go on, Lucy 
M." The tout's face was clouded. 

"Yer wrong, pal ; that's Hayward the 
First. Lucy was left at th' post." The 
distress of the stranger was pitiful. 
"Lucy M left at the post; my God, I'm 
ruined." He sank upon his seat and 
buried his head in his hands. The 
crowd about him gave no heed. Their 
attention was fixed upon their several 
choices. What cared they whether a 
human life was staked upon the out- 
come. Perhaps several lives at stake, 
what difference as long as their horse 
won. Meanwhile the tout was watching 
the race with great interest. Suddenly 
he said, "By God, she's got a cnance." 
He touched the stranger on the shoulder. 



WRITINGS 73 

"Don't give up yet, pal, Lucy is still in 
it; she's runnin' great." The stranger 
jumped quickly to his seat, a wild look 
of hope upon his face. "You say she 
has a chance," he said, "is that her 
fifth?" 

"Yes, an' she's catchin' Allegro," ex- 
claimed the tout. The stranger resem- 
bled a maniac. "Come on, Lucy M," he 
shrieked, "come on." 

"At the half now, pal," said the tout, 
his voice trembling with suppressed ex- 
citement. 

"She's passing that red one. She's 
fourth now," exclaimed the stranger. 
Our hero was now almost insane with 
excitement. His face was flushed; his 
eyes dilated ; he was wildly waving his 
hat. As the horses made the far turn 
he lost what little remained of self-con- 
trol. 

"Goon, Lucy M! Goon! The jockey 
is whipping her ! She is responding no-. 



74 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

bly! She's catching the leaders! Go 
on, Lucy M ! Go on !'' 

'The back stretch will tell, pal," said 
the tout. The stranger paid no atten- 
tion. He was in another world. "Look 
at her go. Why, the others are standing 
still." He was laughing hysterically. 
"She's second now. Go on, Lucy M !" 

The tout was beginning to get excited. 
He had thought Lucy M would "blow 
up," as he put it, in the stretch, but as 
she seemed to be holding on and gaining 
slightly, his face became flushed. At 
last he jerked off his cap and became as 
frantic as the stranger. 

"They're in the stretch," he yelled. 
"She's a length behind Hayward, but 
gaining." Both the stranger and tout 
acted like madmen. But now on all 
sides were madmen. The race was evi- 
dently between Hayward the First and 
Lucy M. Hayward was leading, but un- 
der punishment. Could he hold thel 
lead ? Pandemonium reigned. The sup- 



WRITINGS 75 

porters of Hayward were howling, bawl- 
ing, yelling and cursing. Were these 
creatures civilized men? It seemed 
hardly possible. The horses had now 
reached the front of the stand, Hayward 
still leading by a half a length. The 
stranger's voice could be heard above 
the awful din. "Come on, Lucy M! 
Come on! Oh, that jockey's noble." 

"That coon kin ride, pal," shrieked the 
tout. "They're heads apart. By God, 
pal, she'll win." Head and head they 
ran. They passed beneath the wire like 
a team. Bodies extended; necks 
stretched; eyes glaring; jockeys using 
whip and spur with might and main. 

The race was over. A mighty silence 
reigned. Breathlessly the crowd await- 
ed the decision. Every eye was riveted 
upon the number board. The tout 
crossed the fingers of both hands and 
groaned. At last the marker raised the 
number. The stranger was the first to 
see it. "Hurrah for Lucy M, Vm sev- 



76 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

enteen hundred to the good." The tout 
and the stranger fell into each other's 
arms and hugged themselves for joy. 
At last the tout extricated himself and 
said: "Let's git in line, pal, and spot 
the cash before it spoils. Pal, that wuz 
certainly a killin'. Seventeen hunerd 
bones. Holy swipes. Ain't I th' candy 
kid, pal? Stick it here." He extended 
a hand. The stranger grasped and said 
fervently: "You have saved my life." 
They hurried to the ring and got in line. 
Both the stranger and the tout were 
jubilant. "Stick to me, pal, en I'll make 
ye a millionaire. Gee, they're takin' a 
long time to cash. There's a crowd 
aroun' the judge's stand. Wait here 'till 
I see what's up." The tout ran from 
the ring. The stranger looked anxiously 
toward the judge's stand. Suddenly a 
cheer broke from the crowd and they 
started toward the ring. 

"What's it about?" he asked the first 
man to line up. 



WRITINGS ' 77 

*'Lucy M was disqaulified ; they gave 
the race to Hayward the First." The 
stranger groaned, staggered and fell 
senseless upon the ground. Three men 
carried him to the stairway. One man 
put a flask to his lips. After a few 
moments he came to. He was bewild- 
ered a moment, and then all came back 
to him. He buried his head in his hands 
and groaned. The crowd about him be- 
gan to disperse with the exception of a 
few of the more curious. The tout came 
running up : 

'Tve been lookin' fer ye everywhere, 
pal,'' he said. ''That wuz a hard ole 
knock ye got. Lucy M ran a great race 
and won right enough, but Murphy 
claimed a foul. Plain case a' stealing 
but us fellers git used to that; a part 
uv of th' game ye know. W'y» y^ look 
all in, ole sport, what's th' row? Some, 
cheer up. There's three more on th',, 
card en maybe th' bookies 'ill treat us 



78 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

better. I got a good one in this race 
and we'll git it all back/' 

"I put up my last," moaned the 
stranger without looking up. 

^'Yer dead broke, eh? Well, that is 
bad. But ye'll be out t'morra an* ye 
kin fin' me here at th' Cumberlan'. I'll 
have somethin' good." 

"I won't be here again." The strang- 
er looked up. His face was white and 
drawn, his eyes cold and lusterless. He 
was the picture of despair. 

** Ye won't be here no more? Oh, yes, 
ye will. They all say that, but they gen- 
erally turn up again." 

"Tomorrow I will be in jail," said the 
stranger in harsh tones. "Today I wa- 
gered stolen money to recuperate past 
losses. If Lucy M had won that race I 
should have quit for good. I am a crim- 
inal." He bowed his head in his hands. 
The tout looked thunderstruck. 
^ "Well, this game does get a lot uv 
you high-toned guys, don't it. Well, I'm 



WRITINGS 79 

sorry for ye, pal; but it ain't my fault 
Lucy M was disqualified; damn th* 
judges/' 

"Don't feel sorry for me," said the 
stranger; "even I don't care what be- 
comes of my miserable self. I've been a 
fool, and I realize it now when it is too 
late. I deserve all I'll get, but my poor 
mother will suffer more than I. How 
will she stand the disgrace, her son a 
common thief and gambler. It will kill 
her; my God, it will kill her." Tears 
began to trickle through the stranger's 
fingers. The tout stepped about uneasily, 
then sat down by the stranger, a look 
of sympathy upon his face. 

"Brace up, my boy, it may not turn 
out so bad. Can't ye borrow from yer 
frien's er hock some uv yer duds. Majf- 
be ye kin raise five hunerd that way?" 

"My case is hopeless. I've borrowed 
and borrowed from every one that would 
trust me, until now my credit is worth- 
less. My watch, stud and everything I 



80 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

own that is of any account is in pawn. 
This cursed fiend of gambling has led 
me on and on to — hell. I've squandered 
all my mother's savings and at last 
stooped so low as to commit robbery, 
thinking all the time my luck would 
change and I could put it all back. I 
don't know why I tell you all my trou- 
bles, but I must tell some one. My God, 
I cannot bear them alone. But I de- 
serve it, I deserve it." The stranger 
bowed his head and continued: "Oh, 
what a cowardly cur I am. My old 
mother away down in Maine, dear old 
Maine, has denied herself to furnish 
money which I have squandered. I'm 
the most miserable man on earth." 

"In Maine, pal ; did you live in Maine? 
What town in Maine?" 

"Bangor," whispered the stranger. 
The tout started up. 

"Bangor, Maine !" he exclaimed. The 
stranger looked up. The inflection of 
the tout's voice was peculiar. 



WRITINGS 81 

"Did you know any one in Bangor, 
Maine?" the stranger asked. 

The tout did not answer the question. 
He stood for a few moments looking 
toward the betting ring. 

"How much did you borrow, pal?" 
the tout asked. 

"Borrow?" question the stranger. 

"I mean, from your boss," said the 
tout apologetically. 

"Five hundred," the stranger an- 
swered in a low, fierce whisper. 

The tout seemed engaged in a great 
mental struggle. The stranger's head 
was bowed, his hands covered his face. 
At last the tout broke the silence. 

"Well, I tell ye, pal, I feel ashamed an' 
sorry. I'm part th' cause o' yer condi- 
tion. I'm only a tout, a hanger-on. I 
lied w'en I said as how I wuz on th' in- 
side. I ain't, ner neither is nobody as 
fer as I know. I didn't bet a cent on 
Lucy M in that race. I jes give her a 
outside chanst. I touted ye on Lucy M, 



82 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

pal." The stranger looked up in angry- 
surprise, his fists clenched. The tout 
continued: "I thought ye wuz a big 
gun. That's th' kin' us fellers look fer, 
th' big guns, that are green to th* game. 
I thought all th* time ye had a roll an' 
could afford to lose. If I'd known ye 
wuz up agin it like this, I wouldn't a 
touted ye, honest I wouldn't. Pal, I 
been on th' tracks since I wuz a yearlin*. 
My ole man wuz a stable boy. I wuz a 
jock, an' a good one, too, if I do say it, 
'til I got thrun in the Brooklyn handi- 
cap an' put this leg out o' gear. Now, 
I'll tell ye a funny story, pal. Ye 
wouldn't think a guy like me ud have a 
mother, would ye? But I did an' 
through my sickness she nussed an' 
watched over me. It was brain fever, 
pal, an' a broken leg. Time an' again I 
rode that race in my delirium, an' I'd a 
rode it to my finish, if my mother hadn't 
stuck to me. I ain't dippy, pal, er noth- 
in' like that, but I know what a frien' 



WRITINGS 83 

is — I had one. She wuz a good woman, 
she wuz^one o' them bible-kin', ye 
know ; not one o' them kin' that spiels a 
lot, but one that does a lot. Th' jocks 
ust to call her The' Angel of Sheeps- 
head.' Pal, if ever ther' wuz an angel, 
she wuz one; married th' ole man to 
make him better — didn't succeed though. 
Well, pal, she left us one day an' then's 
w'en I lost th' only frien' I ever had. 
Pal, she's buried in Bangor, Maine ; dear 
ole Bangor, where I wuz a yearlin'. 
W'en ye said ye hailed frum Bangor, it 
put a different color on yer story. An 
w'en ye mentioned yer mother, ye kin' 
a touched a tender spot, I guess th' only 
one in this ole carcass. Durn me, if I 
didn't nearly bawl. Pal, I'm sorry fer 
you, an' I'm as much to blame almost as 
you are, but I'm sorrier fer yer mother. 
She mustn't know about this, pal. I've 
got jes' about five hundred left in my 
wad an' yer welcome to it, if ye'll prom- 
ise me one thing — never play th' races 



84 JAMES KELLY COLE'S 

again. Y' ain't built fer it, pal. Yer too 
excitable, an', b'sides, horse-racin's a 
game fer such fellers as I, that don't 
know nothin' else. It's a game fer gam- 
blers an' thieves, not fer a feller like 
you. Take th' advice of an' old timer, 
keep away from th' ponies. Th' game 
ruins more than it makes. I've seen th' 
effects uv it. Here, Pal, take it. Me 
name's Bud Mayer, an' if ye happen to 
get ahead that much some day, w'y jes' 
drop in on me, maybe it'll come u4 
handy." The stranger rose and took the 
tout's hand, tears coursing down his 
cheecks, his voice shaking with sobs. 
He tried to mumble an expression of 
gratitude, but failed. He broke down 
and wept like a child. "Don't thank me, 
pal, it's nothin' much. Pal, I know if 
she wuz here she'd say: ^That's right. 
Bud,' an* that's all the reward I want." 
He squeezed the stranger's hand and 
with some trouble broke away. "Well, 
if I haven't clean missed th' fourth race. 



WRITINGS 85 

The bunch 'ill think this tout's a dead 
one. Good-bye, pal ; remember yer prom- 
ise." He entered the ring. The stranger 
sat upon the stairway clutching the 
tout's money, a prey to many emotions. 
A moment later a merry voice was heard 
above the babble of the ring. It came 
from a little man in plaid trousers and 
orange jersey, coatless, and wearing a 
little blue cap. "Hey, Charlie, what a'ye 
know in the fifth?" 



^> -u 



